


softer than sea mist

by wintersrose616



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirates, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29243814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersrose616/pseuds/wintersrose616
Summary: Sylvain gives Dedue a nod, taking Mercedes by the elbow to gently guide her back to the others. “I must offer you my most sincere apologies,” he begins, keeping his voice steady and slow. “I can’t imagine what horrors must have befallen you, but I can assure you no harm will come to you while you’re on this ship. Welcome aboardCethleann’s Salvation. My name is Sylvain Gautier, and I am her Captain.”.Sylvain wouldn't dare to kid himself into thinking that his crew is full of innocents, but they at least follow his rule of not taking prisoners. Except, of course, when they find the King of Faerghus in chains below the deck of a ship they've raided.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 29
Kudos: 83





	1. a guest

The smell of gunpowder has faded, swallowed up almost as soon as they had finished firing the last cannon, the ocean masking it with the ever-present scent of the water as waves crash against the sides of the ship.

Outside the open windows, the skies are clear, barely any wisps of clouds in sight. There’s a few gulls calling to one another as they circle the ship, their chattering louder than the distance din of his own crew talking excitedly, their payday guaranteed to be plentiful after this newest successful raid.

There are plenty of rules that Sylvain had laid out for his crew to follow. When it came to fights or raids, he only had one: they didn’t deal with humans. No prisoners, no new crewmates from plundered ships. If their enemy surrendered, they were allowed to live. If their enemy _didn’t_ surrender, they were met with a swift and merciful death. The crew of _Cethleann’s Salvation_ were all more than willing to follow that rule—they didn’t take prisoners, they didn’t _kidnap_.

A breeze carrying the smell of the sea floats in from outside, ruffling the papers scattered across Sylvain’s desk, breaking through the salt permeating the air as he flips through his own books, trying to pinpoint the language of the ones he had taken off the other ship.

He had retreated at the very end of the fight, having pilfered the logs and books from the other ship’s captain’s quarters while the man’s body was still cooling. He left his crew to take their picks of the spoils they could rummage, allowing Claude to handle the worst of any arguments that arose using his authority as the quartermaster.

A sharp cry from one of the gulls startles Sylvain into looking out the window. The windows of his office lay on starboard, the broadside out of sight. He hears a few voices of his crew raise up over the sounds of the waves lapping, but they quiet almost immediately—a fight easily talked down, Sylvain assumes, once whoever got upset was able to be reasoned with.

He can hear the cheerfulness from the crew carrying their newest treasure back and forth across the ships in through the windows as he pours over his books. Wherever that ship had come from, it isn’t anywhere Sylvain’s familiar with. Worry starts to nag at the back of his mind at the thought of it. While the ship held flags claiming to be Adrestian, the people aboard it had been. . . _strange_. They had all seemed too willing to surrender to them, all except the captain. Even they didn’t put up _that_ much of a fight, seemingly over-confident that they wouldn’t lose against Sylvain’s gun.

He lifts a hand, scratching his fingers through the carefully trimmed hairs of his beard, his brows starting to furrow. The sooner they push away from this boat, the better. He’s not sure how many of that crew surrendered in total, but he knows that it’s probably more than enough to be worried about.

There’s one quick knock on his door before the knob rattles, the door opening before he can call an entrance. He normally doesn’t mind his crew coming into his office as they please—but the look on Claude’s face as he steps across the threshold makes him straighten, his thoughts about the looping hand in unfamiliar words on the papers below him going out the window.

“Captain,” Claude begins, voice full of a wariness that unsettles Sylvain.

“What’s wrong?”

“We finished inspecting the other ship,” he says. “They. . .” Claude pauses, making a face. He shifts his weight from foot to foot as he pushes a hand through his hair.

That alone makes nerves alight under Sylvain’s skin. Claude is probably the smoothest talker the ship holds, even better at silvered words than Sylvain is.

“Claude. Tell me what’s happened. _Now.”_

A sharp exhale, Claude’s eyes darting away from him. “We’ve got a man tied to the mast.”

Sylvain stops short, blinking. “We’ve got a—? _What?”_

“I know what you’re going to say—”

“We took a _prisoner_?”

“No!” Claude pauses, face twisting. “I mean, _yes_ , but—”

“What ‘ _but_ ,’ Claude?” he demands, scowling. He gestures behind Claude, out the door. You just said we have a _man_ tied to the _mast_!”

“Yes, I know—.” Claude lifts his hands. “Peace, Captain, _listen_. Please.”

Sylvain makes a face, crossing his arms. “Explain.”

“We found him below deck on their ship. He was being held captive.” Claude speaks slowly, trying to deescalate the tension thrumming in the set of Sylvain’s jaw, the fury running in his veins. “He was in shackles and everything, chained to the wall by a collar. As soon as Ashe got close enough to try to pick the locks, this man tried to bite his ear off. I can’t truly blame him for it, based on what it looks like he’s been through, but he’s dangerous, Captain. The mast was the best option until I could come get you.”

Sylvain glowers. “You thought tying a man who looks like he’s been _tortured_ to the mast was the best option?”

Claude just shrugs. “For the safety of the crew? Yes. Mercie was trying to get close to him, but he’s still snarling. Best you go see him now before he breaks the sails down and dooms us all.”

Sylvain lifts his hat off his head, pushing a hand through his hair roughly before settling it back on. He smooths down the front of his coat as he passes by Claude, still frowning. “We have _one_ rule, Claude.”

“Well, that’s just not true.”

Sylvain huffs at the attempted quip, spoken only to try to lighten the mood. It’s something Sylvain knows well—something he also tends to lean towards on the rougher days.

He makes his way out of his office without another word, eyes darting along the broadside where members of the crew were busy with lifting gangways, cutting the ropes that secured them to their conquered ship. His eyes go next to the helm, where he can see Raphael, readying to lead them back on their route as soon as they’re clear.

The sun’s still shining. The slight breeze coming off the waves ruffles the unruly curls sticking out from under his hat. Claude walks a step behind him, a presence at his shoulder as they cross the deck.

The rest of the crew that _isn’t_ working towards getting them back on the seas is gathered around the main mast, like an audience gathered for a play. Sylvain hears Mercedes’ voice over the dim murmuring of the others, soothing and gentle as always, asking how she might be able to help the man, what injuries he holds, but the only answer she gets is silence.

“Apparently, he’s tired of snarling,” Claude says, a wry, little twist to his lips.

Sylvain gives him a look, but his voice has gathered the attention of the crew. Leonie steps aside, her arms crossed over her chest, and the others start to part like the sea to let Sylvain through. Mercedes is closer to the mast, Dedue silent behind her. Her hands are outstretched, hovering, as if she’s trying to discern injury from sight alone.

Faith magic only goes so far if she can’t diagnose the wounds herself.

It’s what stands beyond her that catches Sylvain’s eye the easiest. Standing half-slouched against the mast, tied with their best mooring rope, is their new captive.

Sylvain’s eyes narrow as he approaches, taking him in. He’s in torn trousers and a loose shirt, no boots, his feet scraped to the eternal flames and back alongside with the knuckles on his fists. His arms are bound at his sides, elbows tight against his small waist. He’s large enough; a formidable fighter, Sylvain guesses, based on his wide shoulders and the obvious sign of corded muscles under his shirt.

Ashe had been able to get most of the chains off of him—the only one that remains is a heavy, metal collar about his neck. Probably too close to snapping teeth to get to safely. He’s breathing steadily, eyes downcast, a messy mane of unwashed, golden hair falling about his head in loose strands, blocking his face from view.

Sylvain gives Dedue a nod, taking Mercedes by the elbow to gently guide her back to the others. “I must offer you my most sincere apologies,” he begins, keeping his voice steady and slow. “I can’t imagine what horrors must have befallen you, but I can assure you no harm will come to you while you’re on this ship. Welcome aboard _Cethleann’s Salvation_. My name is Sylvain Gautier, and I am her Captain.”

Sylvain watches him closely for any tell in his body language, which means he sees the tensing of arms and shoulders as soon as Sylvain’s names have left his lips. There’s a silence as his head slowly lifts, raising to look at him. His face is still mostly shaded by his greasy, matted hair, but Sylvain catches sight of a single, piercing blue eye, boring into him and whatever’s left of his soul.

One of Sylvain’s hands had been resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip—a habit, borne from years of needing it—but the man’s eye makes him jolt, his hands falling to his sides, familiarity striking through him like the lick of a whip.

Sylvain knows that face.

 _“Sylvain._ ”

His voice is a low rumble, the sound of stones grinding against one another, rough with disuse. It _should_ be unfamiliar— _he_ should be unfamiliar. His jaw is squared, tense with displeasure at his current situation, not an ounce of the baby fat Sylvain remembers left on it. He’s tall and broad, his waist tapered, skin sun-kissed and covered in a litany of scars. Even his other eye holds new scars, the telltale sign of a newer injury, his skin puckered and shiny and sealing that eye shut.

Sylvain knows it had to have been done on that ship. The thought makes Sylvain want to sink it into the depths below.

It’s been nearly a decade. Sylvain knows who he is immediately despite the length of time. He _knows_ him.

And he knows he shouldn’t be here, in the middle of the ocean, far from the shores of Faerghus.

He tries to keep his voice steady. Tries to manage more than a wisp of sound escaping his lips. He manages a single exhale, one breath to pronounce the three syllables of his name.

“Dimitri.”

Dimitri’s lips part, his own exhale a repeat of Sylvain’s name.

Behind him, there’s a fresh start of murmuring from the crew. There’s only one Dimitri that would be worth their time.

Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd.

The King of Faerghus.

“Fuck,” Sylvain says. “Alright.”

He moves quickly— _too_ quickly, based on the way Dimitri reels back at his approach, shoulders hitting the mast as his back straightens against it. His breath comes out a bit faster, eye sharpening, and Sylvain slows, tempers himself. He lifts his hands, showing he means no harm with his palms forward, fingers splayed, just as Mercedes had done before him.

“I’m going to untie you,” he says, calm, careful. “Once we get you untied, Mercie here can look over your injuries, and then there’s a tub and a nice, soft bed awaiting you as soon as your wounds get tended.” He dips his chin in a small nod, eyes dropping to the collar shackled around Dimitri’s neck briefly before meeting his gaze. “We’ll get that off you, too.”

Sylvain keeps his movements slow and stays within view of that single eye that darts between Sylvain and the crew behind him, all who have hardly moved besides to shift their weight back and forth. Dimitri’s hesitant, wary, and Sylvain does not blame him. It’s been so long since they had seen one another, the distance between them far more vast than any seas Sylvain’s crossed in his years.

Nine, nearly ten entire years since they had last seen one another. Sylvain remembers that day well, the day his father had finally allowed him to help command a ship in King Lambert’s name. Sylvain had leapt at the chance to go on the trip, always trying to find ways to get in Miklan’s good graces, find a way to get him to stop hating Sylvain.

The dock their ship had been moored out had been crowded, the sun hot overhead, a rare treat in a Faerghan summer. Sylvain had been dressed in a finely tailored uniform in Blaiddyd blue, proudly bearing the Crest of Gauiter on a lapel, hair carefully slicked back and pressed to make him look older than his seventeen years.

While their parents were required to be there, Dimitri had opted to come alongside Ingrid and Felix to see Sylvain off. Sylvain can remember how princely Dimitri looked, even at fifteen, even with that awful haircut Sylvain hadn’t had it in himself to tease him over. Felix had been at his side, scowling instead of pouting, desperate to look like an adult, to put distance between the crybaby Sylvain had wiped the tears of countless times. Ingrid, too, had been trying her best to look like an adult, despite how uncomfortable she looked in the dress she had been wearing. She had scoffed when Sylvain had kissed the back of her hand, like she was the proper lady she never wanted to be, making Sylvain swear to tell her all about the adventures he would be going on.

 _Adventures_ had been generous. The furthest his father would let him and Miklan go on their own was a brief patrol, no longer than three weeks. They were just to check the boundaries of where their waters met Adrestia’s, and then return.

Sylvain can remember the stern look his father had given him, a lecture on his tongue to make certain Sylvain knew _not_ to embarrass him.

He’s always wondered what excuse Miklan gave when the patrol returned down a man.

He’s always wondered how the others reacted upon the news that Margrave Gautier’s son arrived home without the other.

He doesn’t have time to dwell too deeply on those thoughts, not when the King of Faerghus is tied to the mast of his ship, looking like he’s been through the depths of hell and back.

Sylvain has to lean close to work the knots loose, his hands working as quickly as he can manage. The mooring rope was the best choice—Sylvain knows Dimitri’s strength is close to unnatural. There were countless times when they were children that training swords and spears had been broken by just a too-tight fist.

Dimitri’s breathing is still steady, his body still coiled, prime to attack if he sees any of them as a threat. Sylvain talks through working the knots free, explaining his normal policy of not taking prisoners, apologizing for the rough treatment he faced at the hands of whoever dragged him aboard _Cethleann’s Salvation_.

He lets the ropes drop to the ground at their feet, knowing one of his crew will see them to their proper spot. Mercedes is hovering close by and Sylvain offers her his arm, tilting his head to point out the doors leading towards her surgeon’s quarters to Dimitri.

“Right this way, Your Majesty.”

Dimitri frowns at the title, but says nothing as he starts to follow. His footsteps are off-kiltered, his weight favouring his left over the right. Sylvain takes another glance down at his feet, frowning. It’s hard to assess if his boots could fit the King’s, but he supposes it’ll take a day or two before they’ll be healed enough to try.

Mercedes is at his elbow, her lips pursed slightly in thought, a small furrow of determination in her brow. He can already see her plotting what she needs to do for what’s visible, and Sylvain has always been grateful for her on the ship, but it swells in his chest now.

The surgeon’s quarters are slightly smaller than Mercedes deserves, despite her insistence she’s fine with the limited space. There’s two cots in the room’s center, her medical supplies at the ready on a table between them. In the far corner, partially hidden behind hanging curtains, Sylvain can see the end of Mercedes’ own bed, a needlework project resting on the corner, abandoned as soon as she heard someone was injured.

It’s easy enough for Dimitri to settle on one of the cots, but before Mercedes can get her supplies, his voice rumbles out.

“Could you look at the collar first?” A small pause, politeness overtaking his rough voice. “Please.”

“Of course,” Mercedes says, moving closer.

Sylvain waits near the door, hearing the sounds of the crew as they lift the anchor, the wind catching the sails to distance themselves from the other ship. He’s half-tempted to sink them, still, but refrains, his focus solely on Dimitri now.

Mercedes’ hands move carefully around Dimitri’s neck, the delicate touch of her fingers still causing him to flinch. Her apology is brushed off with a grunt as Dimitri lifts his chin for her, baring his neck so she can get a good look at the metal wrapped around his throat.

It doesn’t take long for concern to cloud her face, her eyes lifting to meet Sylvain’s over Dimitri’s shoulder.

“What is it?” he asks.

“It’s magework,” Mercedes says, her voice still carefully calm. “I’m not sure what kind—I am sorry, Your Majesty, but I’m not skilled with many Reason spells.”

“I can look at it,” Sylvain offers. “If I can’t figure it out, then it might not be Reason, it could be something else.”

A look overcomes Dimitri’s face, his eye lowering, the expression one that knocks the breath from Sylvain’s lungs. The despair that crosses his face is quickly masked, and he dips his chin in a nod regardless, giving Sylvain permission to approach.

Sylvain’s careful, trying to keep his touch as delicate as Mercedes’ as he runs his fingers over the collar. It’s thick, a silvered steel that looks heavy, smooth save for where runes are carved into it. The runes aren’t ones he’s able to read, but they’re familiar to him all the same—he has an entire collection of books and reports written using them. He doesn’t think the magic should be too hard to figure out once they can get to port, but the thought of Dimitri having to wear it any longer makes his stomach twist.

He runs his fingers along the back, trying to find where it’s been locked into place. Ashe is the best lock picker Sylvain’s ever met—even with the runes, if they can find the lock, he’s certain Ashe could unlock it.

Except there’s no lock. No visible blemish in the steel to showcase where the halves had come together. Instead, what Sylvain finds when he goes to Dimitri’s back to look, is another small rune.

It’s not one that he’s familiar with. It’s not even one that looks like it belongs in the books in his office.

It looks like a brand.

Fear rushes through him, hot and choking. Unfamiliar magework on a ship that had captured a king.

He exhales a sharp breath, drawing both Dimitri and Mercedes’ attention alike.

“Mercie, tend to his wounds and show him to my quarters after—a king deserves the best bed on the ship.”

“You’re a pirate,” Dimitri states, suddenly. “You bow to no king. I don’t need your quarters.”

“Oh, aye, aye, that’s true, but I am the pirate whose boat saved the King of Faerghus and that’s worth something when we get you back to your port. Might as well sweeten you up by treating you nicely.”

He talks as he moves back towards the door, the fact that the collar still remains about Dimitri’s neck answer enough to Sylvain’s ability to unlock it. He moves through the door, hearing Mercie’s soft voice as she begins to explain what she’s going to do to treat him. He tries to quell his panic down as he carries himself back onto the main deck, eyes landing on Claude across the way talking with Ashe.

A miracle, he thinks. Or the Goddess’ one last favour before she makes them face her wrath.

Sylvain all but slams into the conversation he’s having with Ashe, gripping Claude’s elbow. Claude’s surprise is evident in the slight widening of his eyes, the way his brows lift before he catches sight of Sylvain’s expression.

“Captain?”

“How many survivors did we leave on that boat?” he asks, voice low.

Claude’s brows furrow. “What?”

“Did we leave _survivors_ , Claude?”

“We left those who surrendered, as always. Sylvain, what’s—?”

A voice from the crow’s nest, already laced with panic, plummets down to their ears. “ _Captain!_ ”

Sylvain whirls, not needing their direction. Already, the other boat is a smudge on the horizon, a distance blur. It’s the sea and sky themselves that make Sylvain’s stomach knot, his throat working as he swallows, a thousand orders flying through his head.

The dark clouds rushing towards them are unnatural. As unnatural as the magework on the chains Dimitri wears. They’re moving quickly, the seas starting to churn dark as they turn against them.

A storm, not brewing—surging towards them, violently ferocious.

There are no gulls around them anymore. Just their ship in the path of a tempest that’s prepared to kill.

Sylvain doesn’t even have time to curse. His words come out quickly, orders to Claude. _Make sure the ballast is full. We’re steering through it. Reef the sails, get the storm jib up._

Ashe is still at his elbow by the time Claude rushes off, his voice echoing Sylvain’s orders. The crew’s already on it, their earlier excitement from a successful haul flowing into the knowledge of what they need to do for any hopes to survive.

Sylvain turns, his eyes landing on Ashe, taking stock of his set jaw, the sharpness in his green eyes.

“Ashe.”

“Captain.”

“We’re going to need Raphael to secure cargo,” Sylvain states. “I’m going to man the helm.”

Ashe nods, the slightest crease coming to his face. “What do you need me to do?”

“You’re tying me to the helm.”

“I’m _what_?” Ashe’s voice hitches.

Sylvain starts moving, eyes and focus both honed in on the helm. Raphael sees them coming, Ashe jogging to keep up with Sylvain’s measured steps.

“Raph, go help secure the cargo!” he calls ahead of them and as soon as they reach the helm, he turns to Ashe to hold his gaze, a hand on his shoulder. “You’re tying me to this thing so that no matter what, I am not letting go.”

“Is that a good idea, Captain?”

“To have someone at the helm the entire time? _Securely?_ Yes.”

“Captain—”

“This is an order, Ashe. Don’t argue with me.”

The sky overhead matches the colour of Ashe’s hair by the time he’s looping rough hewn rope around Sylvain’s hands and through the spokes of the wheel. It’s a sharp contrast to the bright blue the sky had held not an hour before. They’re not the worst to come. As Ashe gets his waist secured with the rope, Sylvain’s attention goes to where the storm’s formed, already barrelling towards them at unnatural speeds.

The grey sky is just their forewarning. The light promise of the havoc that’s going to hit them in less than twenty minutes by Sylvain’s guess.

Dedue’s at his side before Ashe has finished securing the ropes to the helm. There’s worry to his brow, his eyes on the storm. He’s never been one to shy away from voicing his opinion, but words have always come difficult to him.

“We’ve no choice but to sail through it,” Sylvain states. “We’ve faced worse.”

“We’ve faced _natural_ born storms,” says Dedue. “Not this.”

“Go see Mercedes,” he orders. “Make sure she’s safe.”

Dedue hesitates only a moment before nodding. One last tug against the ropes and Ashe steps back, the nerves alight in his eyes, but determination setting his jaw.

“Brace yourselves!” he calls out, voice louder than the rest of his crew’s voices as they rush to and fro. “We’re sailing through it!”

The resounding bellows of _aye, aye_ reach his ears. He turns to Ashe, tilting his head with a beam that makes his cheeks ache from the force.

“I have one more job for you.”

The entire situation is unsettling, but Sylvain knows his grin is what gives Ashe complete pause. “. . .Captain?”

“Dedue’s already checking on Mercedes, but I want to make sure he’s aware of it as well. You make sure our new guest stays below deck.”

“You—you want me to _order_ a king?” Ashe asks, his voice hitching with mild panic.

Sylvain nods, resolutely. “Tell him it’s heavily suggested unless he wants to be washed overboard. He should be amenable to it.”

 _“Captain_ —”

“Show him to my quarters,” Sylvain orders, his fingers flexing on the wheel. His grin now feels less forced, but no less feral, and he pairs it with a wink. “I won’t be using them tonight, anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to quote a dear friend: "all aboard the 69er"


	2. wounds, old and new

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Dimitri _did_ know well then was that Sylvain’s hands were always gentle to them. They had been calloused like all of theirs had been, sword and ropework making for rough skin, but those hands had never seemed capable of being truly hurt. They had helped Dimitri up countless times, bandaged his own scraped knees, ruffled his hair. Sylvain was the only one who was able to get Felix to stop crying in their youth, his thumbs always brushing away salt tracks with a care that had seemed well-honed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothing graphic, but dimitri was tortured before the start of this fic, and it's discussed (briefly!) in this chapter!

Earlier, while the waves crashed against the ship’s sides, rocking the boat to and fro with an intensity that promised to make Dimitri sick, Mercedes, the healer, had asked him not to walk around. _Try to keep your weight off your feet,_ had been her exact words when the rain first started to fall, right before Dimitri had been led to the captain’s quarters by a young man who hadn’t been able to look him in the eye and stuttered his way through a _Your Majesty._

He has no _true_ idea how she expected him to stay still. While he understands her concerns well enough—the bandages on his feet were fresh, the worst of the wounds healed with magic but still needing time to fully repair—it’s been what feels like months since he’s been able to stretch his legs, to put his weight beneath him on his feet. Even the dull ache in his feet hadn’t been able to get him to settle instead of walking the length of the captain’s quarters as the ship tilted this way and that and the muffled shouting of the crew overhead came through the floorboards even through the sound of the storm.

 _Try_ , Mercedes had said, but Dimitri had done the exact opposite. Dimitri had spent a solid twenty minutes just pacing the length of the room, even leaving the door open to the adjourning room with a tub so he could utilize the length of the room. Once he had grown tired of that, he had opted to snoop.

For rooms belonging to a captain, they weren’t ornately decorated. They held more personal trinkets than treasure or coin. Dimitri had opened drawer after drawer, finding neatly folded clothes, both finery and threadbare placed delicately beside one another. The room with the large tub held its own batch of oddities, a small box of glass bottles of oils that had clinked and clanked against one another as the boat rocked roughly, bars of soap that smelled faintly of olives under the lavender scent, a mirror on the vanity Dimitri avoided looking into.

The only thing that seemed _lavish_ —next to the tub—was the bed. Tucked into one corner, the mattress was plush, featherdown, the bedding on top completely different from the spare stash of blankets Dimitri had found underneath. The table next to the bed was plain on top as well, only an old book next to the lantern. The drawer held matches and quills, alongside a pair of stud earrings and a flintlock, and a lone journal Dimitri hadn’t dared touch, the leather etched with _S. Gautier_.

Perhaps he’s in shock, or perhaps his body and mental state has been pushed to the limits where this might as well have happened. Either way, Dimitri has no true idea how he feels about seeing Sylvain Gautier again.

The last time Dimitri had seen him had been on the day Margrave Gautier had sent both his sons to sea and only one had returned.

He had been a boy back then, bright eyed and seventeen, hair an array of messy red curls that had been purposely slicked back to follow the navy’s uniform. His smile had been more smirk, always sharp and fake. Dressed in the pressed uniform of the Faerghan Navy, he had looked more like a doll that had been spruced up, the freckles on his cheeks standing out against the dark blue of his collar.

The man that had greeted Dimitri should have looked like a stranger. Broad-shouldered and bearded, he looked all the parts that a pirate captain should have—nowhere close to a nobleman’s son. While it had been hard to tell with a feathered tricorne on his head, Dimitri thought he was no taller than himself, his smile gentle, one that Dimitri remembered had been reserved solely for him, Ingrid, and Felix. His coat was a dark, dyed teal, the oiled leather matching the strip of fabric around the hilt of his sword, the sword he had held onto until he had looked Dimitri in the eye.

The storm faded barely an hour ago by the time Dimitri finally sits on the bed. The moon is shining through the window, stars twinkling bright in the blue-black of the night sky. While his nerves had crackled under his skin in the turmoil of the boat’s rocking, with it settled, the swaying gentler, the only thing buzzing in his blood is anticipation. He shoves it down as he settles into the bed, the faint smell of the citrus oil from the bath clinging to the burgundy sheets.

He’s had a headache for what feels like an entire week, the pain radiating from his right eye, unfurling throughout his entire skull. It steals his focus away from the comfort of the velveteen plush of the bed. He tries his hardest to steady himself, breathing deeply. Perhaps he should have asked Mercedes for something for his pain. She had offered, but he still felt the unease crawling up his spine at being surrounded by _new_ strangers after being at the hands of the worst for who knows how long.

It’s surprising that the citrus, only a lingering scent from the beard oil, grounds him. As children, Sylvain’s favourite tea had been bergamot. It shouldn’t surprise him as much as he does that he thinks of Sylvain with the scent of it.

Sylvain Gautier. Back from the dead. A ghost that Dimitri can touch.

The candle burning on the night table paints the room in a low, orange glow. The waves that are rocking the boat are lulling enough to distract him from his worse injuries, but not enough to ease him into sleep. He alternates between keeping his eye closed and watching the shadows dance across the walls, smearing warmth across the wooden beams around him.

There have been countless footsteps around the door outside since the rains had stopped, the urgency lessened with the settled seas. Dimitri has tensed when any of them have seemed to come close to the door, but none had paused, all continuing on their way.

He’s not sure if he’s just slipping, or if he truly hadn’t heard Sylvain’s steps, when the door creaks open. Regardless, as soon as it starts to swing in, Dimitri sits upright, alert, his shoulders tensing with an instinct to either flee or fight. Sylvain stumbles in without a care, his movements slow, footsteps shuffling as he sways on the spot. He’s _drenched_ , the only thing a slight barrier to the water the oiled leather coat which is the first to hit the floor with a wet _plop_ , followed quickly by his hat.

Dimitri watches, bewildered, as all of his layers come off save for his underclothes, as if he is unaware of the fact that Dimitri is _sitting on his bed_. The pile of wet laundry surprises Dimitri immediately, more so than the shock of Sylvain stripping in front of him. He’s unsure if it’s a new trait from living on a pirate ship, or if Sylvain’s just exhausted from weathering out the storm, but the boy Dimitri had known would cringe at the mess. From what he had gathered in his earlier inspection, so would this pirate captain.

Except Sylvain doesn’t look like he is capable of thinking. He turns, pushing his hands through his hair, crossing the room in four long strides before he falls forward onto the bed. As soon as his head hits the pillow, he groans, his entire body seemingly to melt against the sheets with the exhale.

Dimitri’s not sure where to _look_. His eye darts across the expanse of sun-kissed skin of his back, the constellation of freckles spanning across broad shoulders. There’s a spreading bruise across his waist, purple dyeing the skin of his ribs in marks that make Dimitri frown, the familiarity of them almost enough for him to name. The muscles of his arms shift as he settles, and it’s only when Dimitri follows the length of them that his gaze lands on Sylvain’s hands and freezes.

Sharp, blistering burns line the backs of his hands, all the way down his wrist. When Dimitri’s eye darts back to his waist, he can see the familiar press, the skin there shielded better by his clothes than his bare hands.

Rope burn. Dimitri’s intimately familiar with it, knows the horrors that one could face on a ship if one wasn’t careful with equipment and ropes alike, but he’s never seen it to this degree on someone before.

Especially not burns this deep along the backs of someone’s _hands._

Something wells in him, something that Dimitri isn’t sure how to name. He remembers the bruises and scrapes Sylvain would get into in their childhood, Glenn’s comments about how Sylvain was _scrappy_ and needing to learn how to hold his own. Sylvain had never shown that side of himself to them—nor was Dimitri entirely certain that side existed, after Miklan returned without him.

What Dimitri _did_ know well then was that Sylvain’s hands were always gentle to them. They had been calloused like all of theirs had been, sword and ropework making for rough skin, but those hands had never seemed capable of being truly hurt. They had helped Dimitri up countless times, bandaged his own scraped knees, ruffled his hair. Sylvain was the only one who was able to get Felix to stop crying in their youth, his thumbs always brushing away salt tracks with a care that had seemed well-honed.

Now, those hands stand with open wounds, loosely fisted against the pillow, Sylvain’s body lax. Dimitri has no idea if he’s awake—or if he was unconscious as soon as he hit the mattress. Either way, Dimitri is trapped in the bed’s corner, no easy way to crawl over Sylvain to go find Mercedes without risking a stray knee to the already bruised skin of his ribs.

Dimitri goes to move anyway, already attempting to map out the best route to climb out of the bed, but his movement has Sylvain’s back tensing, his shoulders tightening and catching Dimitri’s attention.  
A moment passes before he relaxes with an exhale, face still pressed into the pillow. “Apologies.” His voice is muffled but laced thick with exhaustion. He remains unmoving as he murmurs, “I forgot someone was using this. Just—roll me onto the floor.”

Dimitri drags his eye up from the wide expanse of his shoulders, staring at the mess of damp red curls. It takes him a moment to process his words and when he does, he jolts, blinking down at the back of Sylvain’s head. “I will do no such thing.”

Sylvain makes a noise. “I would get up, but I really can’t.” He lifts his hand just slightly, fingers waggling in an attempted wave. “There’s some blankets under the bed,” he mumbles, “I can grab ‘em and sleep down there.”

“This is _your_ bed, Sylvain,” Dimitri states. Even pinned in the corner, he knows he’ll be able to get out with some finagling. “I’m certain there are other places where I can sleep—“

Sylvain’s head moves, curls shifting against the dark sheet of the pillow. The low candlelight causes his eyes to burn like molten honey as he looks to Dimitri. The exhaustion on his face is clear in his heavy-lidded gaze, the dark splotches under his eyes. There’s a stray scratch or two against his face, one disappearing under the wiry hairs of his beard.

“Told you, you could have my bed,” Sylvain says. “Just forgot in the storm.”

The storm that was certainly magically made in retaliation for Sylvain and his crew freeing Dimitri.

His hand moves on its own, fingers rubbing against the metal at his throat, and uncomfortable weight that he’s learned to ignore. Sylvain’s eyes follow the movement, sluggish as they are.

“We’re gonna get that off you.” His voice is more mumble than anything else, syllables slurred together, voice trailing and fading. “‘ve a friend that’s good with magic.”

“We’re not discussing this,” Dimitri says, “we’re discussing me not kicking you out of your bed.”

“One of us has to move,” protests Sylvain, voice catching and dimming with a yawn that he turns to bury in his pillow.

Dimitri huffs. He remembers how arguments used to go when they were young—Sylvain always taking the brunt of them, twisting words to make them exasperated instead of truly upset. When his face reemerges from the pillow, his lips are curled slightly, his blinks steadily getting longer and heavier with each passing moment.

“We shared beds as children,” Sylvain continues, more a sigh than anything else. “We could share now, if you don’t mind that we’re both over six feet tall.” His eyes close again, longer this time, and Dimitri almost thinks he’s actually fallen asleep when he murmurs, “You were always too stubborn, hm.”

“ _I’m_ the stubborn one?” Dimitri questions. “ _You’re_ the one that insisted I roll you off the bed.”

While his eyes stay closed, Sylvain’s lips twitch upwards. “Suppose we’re both stubborn, then.” A soft snort. “Both grew up, but that Faerghan stubbornness runs through our veins.”

“I believe you had to grow up faster than you deserved,” says Dimitri, settling back against the pillow, prepared to wait until Sylvain falls asleep before going to get Mercedes.

Based on how his breathing is slowing, he won’t have to wait long.

“‘Should be the one saying that.” Sylvain’s voice drifts again, trailing slightly. “‘Heard about your father. ‘M sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Dimitri tells him. “You need to sleep.”

“So do you. You’re the one that was in chains this morning.”

“Syl _vain._ ”

“Di _mitri_.”

The way Sylvain says his name, laced with mocking exasperation, makes Dimitri pause. The only ones who have called him by name in years have been Felix and Ingrid. Even the people of this ship—some clearly _not_ from Faerghus, seemed inclined to use his royal title instead.

But Sylvain. . .The way Sylvain says his name, not a title, his enunciation clear despite his exhaustion. . .

Dimitri thinks he might like the sound of it.

“We’ll share, then,” he murmurs. “We can talk more in the morning, once you’ve rested.”

“You, too,” says Sylvain, blinking his eyes open. He pats the pillow once. “Lay down, too.”

Dimitri huffs, but settles, watching as Sylvain’s lips stay curled up as his eyes close once more.

“We’ll talk more in the morning,” Dimitri repeats, just to see how he reacts.

Sylvain’s chin dips in a nod, and stays put on the pillow, his breathing already evened out. Dimitri moves, watching as Sylvain’s face smooths over in sleep. He can’t remember the last time he slept so deeply, nor can he remember the last time he slept so peacefully. The lick of jealousy that runs through him is stamped out as soon as Sylvain’s hand twitches against the pillow.

Dimitri takes his hand in his own, looking over the raw burns. He has no idea what Sylvain had to do while the storm was raging, but the marks on his skin are deep, looking in dire need of attention. The palm of his hand is thankfully uninjured, the callouses rough against Dimitri’s own.

He needs to fetch Mercedes, or at least someone who’s awake that can tend to his wounds. He sets Sylvain’s hand back down to the pillow, taking a breath when his fingers twitch against his, as if trying to cling to him even in sleep. He manages to carefully climb over Sylvain, vertigo hitting him just slightly as he tries to right himself against the swaying of the ship. Once he’s steady, he drops down, digging under the bed to grab one of the spare blankets. The one he pulls out is large, knit from a delicately soft yarn, and it settles over Sylvain easily. He makes a soft murmur in his sleep, but doesn’t move, still deeply under.

Dimitri goes to move towards the door, except there’s a quick, sharp knock before he can and he flinches at the noise, body tensing when the handle moves and it swings open a moment later.

Mercedes walks in with a small basket on her arm. When she spots Dimitri standing, she smiles softly.

“I didn’t mean to wake you, Your Majesty,” she says, voice quiet. “I just came to tend to Captain Sylvain’s rope burns.”

Dimitri exhales. Unclenches his fists. “I was coming to see if you were awake just for that,” he manages.

Mercedes gives a light, little giggle, her hand lifting to cover her mouth. “You can lay back down if you’d like. This won’t take too long.”

“I wasn’t—.”

He stops, stammering a bit before cutting himself off completely. Mercedes just tilts her head, waiting.

Dimitri bites down on the inside of his cheek, slipping back into the bed. He watches as Mercedes works, taking her time to inspect the bruising on Sylvain’s ribs, running a hand over them with a soft glow of magic. The bruising doesn’t fade, which tells him there was worse below the blossoming purple.

She tends to his hands next, carefully cleaning the worst of the blisters before laying a sharp smelling poultice over them. She wraps both of his hands up, looking as diligent as she had when she tended to Dimitri, her focus solely on her tasks.

Sylvain, meanwhile, sleeps steadily the entire time.

“Did you—?” Dimitri stops, clearing his throat, as Mercedes’ eyes go to him as she finishes bandaging Sylvain’s right hand. “Did you see what he did to get those?”

“Oh.” She blinks, then huffs softly. “I suppose Ashe didn’t tell you—Sylvain was tied to the helm.”

_“What?”_

He doesn’t mean for his voice to hitch, for it to pitch in volume, and Mercedes isn’t expecting it based on the slightly startled look she gives him. Sylvain shifts just slightly, murmuring incomprehensible. Mercedes smooths a hand over his curls and he settles back into his sleep, all the while staring at Dimitri with her soft eyes.

“He’s done it before in storms,” she says casually, in that quiet, lulling voice. “Not often—but we don’t often have storms that fierce this late in the season. It’s just easier to keep someone at the helm that way, so they’re not washed away by a strong wave.”

Dimitri’s eye flicks down to the wrapped wounds. “He tied himself to the wheel.”

Mercedes nods, the shadows of her movement bouncing along the wall. It’s a move that sounds just like the type Sylvain would have pulled in their youth—adrenaline filled and self-sacrificing. A move that would guarantee others’ safety over his own.

He exhales. “I see.”

“You two grew up together, right?” she asks. “He doesn’t speak often of those days, but he always speaks fondly of you and the others.”

“Does he.”

She gives him a tiny laugh. “I should go, let you get some rest. I’ll check in on the Captain when he’s awake.” She winks when Dimitri looks at her. “I’ll scold him, too, if you’d like.”

“Only if I’d like?”

Another quiet giggle. “Goodnight, Your Majesty,” she whispers, a conspiratorial smile on her lips.

The way the title falls from her lips, lilting and casual, makes Dimitri pause, and before she can turn to collect her basket, he says, “You don’t sound Faerghan.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not,” she says. “I’m from Adrestia.”

“Then—please. I am no king to you. Call me Dimitri.”

She pauses, considering for a moment, her head tilted. The candlelight gives her a glow, as if she's a haloed Saint herself. Her lips curl again, that gentle smile she had given him while dressing his own injuries hours ago. “Only if you call me Mercie.”

He exhales a huff, feeling the weight of months lifting just at the light teasing in her voice. “Mercie, then. Good night.”

A bright, pleased grin crosses her face. “Sleep well, Dimitri.”

He watches as she crosses the room, slipping out the door as softly as she had been the entire time she had been working. Dimitri stretches over Sylvain to put the light out, settling down beside him. The blanket he had grabbed is large enough that he can slip underneath it instead of trying to wrestle the blankets out from beneath them, and once he rests his head against the pillow, his exhaustion catches up to him.

Dimitri wonders if he looks as exhausted as Sylvain does. The thought of the mirror in the adjourning room still feels him with indescribable unease. They had kept him clean shaven on that last ship, always keeping him locked tight to make sure they had access to whatever they needed on his face. He has no idea how the spot where his right eye had been looks—wonders if it’s a mercy or worse that he doesn’t have any stubble to try to distract from the scarring from the injuries he sustained, the hunger to his cheeks.

He exhales a low breath as he readjusts against the pillow. Sylvain’s face is still tilted towards him, a distraction even while his features are mostly shadowed by the darkness in the room. He squeezes his eye shut, exhaling another long breath, and tries his best to fall asleep to the rocking of the ship.

.

That night, Dimitri dreams of home.

He doesn’t quite realize that he’s dreaming at first. It’s been so long since he’s dreamt of anything kind or soft, always fighting his way through nightmares and unspeakable horrors that leave him choking on his breath when he wakes.

But tonight, he walks through the castle, the edges of the halls fuzzy, a curiosity to his mind that he doesn’t have it in him to try to piece together. There’s warmth at his side, a presence that is more than welcomed as he makes his way down familiar corridors. Despite the distortion to his voice, there’s nothing but affection in his tone.

Something in the back of Dimitri’s mind tells him that this isn’t right. Sylvain shouldn’t be walking these corridors with him, his beard a red smudge against the hazy warmth of his expression, standing out against his teal coat. Something tells Dimitri there’s mischief afoot, and he doesn’t get the chance to _speak_ that aloud before Sylvain’s giving him a wide, toothy grin. His hand settles on his shoulder with a squeeze, a kiss brushed against his cheek before Sylvain simply tells him Felix’s paranoia is getting to him.

 _Felix is my advisor_ , states Dimitri. His voice comes out warbled, syllables misshapen on his tongue. _Felix is—._

He stops. Felix should be there.

No.

Felix is—

 _By himself_ , Sylvain supplies with a nod, the smile on his face less relaxed, the sharp edge of his smirk in clear focus. _You left Felix and Ingrid to handle Cornelia by themselves._

 _No—,_ Dimitri tries to say, but the word catches in his throat. That’s not right. He had been at the castle, he had been with them.

 _Funny_ , says Sylvain. _Yet here you are, floating on a ship in the Adrestian Sea._

Dimitri wakes with a gasp, the weight around his waist unimportant compared to the constricting weight around his throat. He scrabbles at the collar around his neck, trying to get a good enough grip to snap it off, his fingers scratching into his skin. He can’t get his fingers underneath the snug fit of the metal. With a shaky exhale he drops his hands, sagging back against the bed, his throat feeling tight as his heart thunders in his chest.

Sylvain is still asleep beside him, his arm thrown around Dimitri as if he was nothing more than a child’s plush to be cuddled.

It shouldn’t soothe him as much, not after everything that’s happened to him, but Dimitri still finds himself reaching down to place a shaking hand atop Sylvain’s banadaged one from where it’s splayed across his stomach.

His breathing sounds harsh to his own ears, and the only reason why Dimitri knows it hasn’t woken Sylvain is due to his exhaustion from the day prior. Beyond the discordant noise of his rough breathing, Dimitri can hear the sounds of waves crashing against the ship, the muffled noise of the crew overhead as they go through their morning.

Early morning light streams through the window, painting the room in a bright glow. The sun halos Sylvain, his curls dyed orange against his pillow. His lips are parted in his sleep, the bruises under his eyes still prominent. Dimitri can still smell the tang of the poultice, the salt-tinged scent of the sea still clinging to his skin.

Dimitri takes a few more moments to steady his breathing, eye moving to follow the sun’s path through the room. It lands on the pile of clothes still in the corner of the room. He closes his eye, exhales a long breath, then gingerly slips his hand beneath Sylvain’s, laying it on the bed as he moves.

As soon as his feet hit the ground, he winces, the floor cold enough to alleviate some of the pain that comes from under the bandages, but not enough. He picks his way over to Sylvain’s clothes, adjusting to the ache in his feet with each carefully placed step. His coat is fine, the leather oiled enough to resist the weather. Dimitri hangs it up carefully on one of the pegs next to the door, alongside his hat, whose feather looks sad and withered now. The rest of his clothes, still damp from the sea and rain, he carries to the room with the bath, laying them at the top of the small basket he had spotted near the tub last night.

Before he turns to leave, he pauses, eyes going to the mirror on the vanity. It’s a small one, handheld, the silvered glass on the top leaving the embellished back visible. Dimitri debates for a long moment, his chest starting to tighten the longer he thinks about taking the two steps it would take to reach and pick it up.

Instead, he turns on his heel, making his way out of the quarters, his feet aching the entire way.

Dimitri’s barely shut the door behind him when there’s a call of _Your Kingliness!_ that startles him. A man he vaguely recognizes as one of the ones who helped him off the other ship approaches, sharp eyes roving over him as he comes to a stop in front of him.

“Good morning,” he greets with a cheerful smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sleep well?”

“I’ve had worse nights,” Dimitri drawls.

The man’s eyes drop to his neck before raising again. “I bet. My name’s Claude. I’m the quartermaster.”

“I see,” Dimitri says. His voice sounds rough to his own ears. If it grates Claude’s, he doesn’t let it show on his face. “A pleasure.”

There’s the smallest hint of amusement that curls at the corner of his lips. “Oh, you’re a flatterer, are you? You’ll do well with the crew,” he says, “but not barefoot. C’mon, Mercie wanted to see you when you were awake anyway.”

Dimitri agrees only because he sees no reason not to. His feet would probably feel better in boots than on the wooden floor of the decks, and he’s certain Mercedes will already be upset with him for walking as much as he has been.

Claude leads him the short way down to the surgeon’s quarters, giving the door a light knock before swinging it open. Mercedes is sitting on her cot in the corner, an embroidery hoop in her hand, her soft eyes going from Claude to Dimitri, her serene smile widening at the sight.

“Good morning, you two,” she greets. “Thank you for bringing Dimitri to me, Claude. Dedue was able to find you some clothes last night, Dimitri, but it was after you and the captain had already gone to bed. Claude, are you able to get some food for him while I check the bandages on his feet?”

“As my lady commands,” Claude says, with a flourished bow. He winks at Dimitri before he slips back out the door.

“Did you sleep well?” Mercedes asks, setting her needlework aside and rising to her feet. She waits patiently for an answer as she gestures to one of the other cots in the room.

“Fine,” Dimitri manages, after a moment. His legs feel stiff as he goes to sit down. “And you?”

“Fine,” she says, off-handedly.

Mercedes’ eyes run over him, a small _hmm_ falling from her lips as she inspects. Dimitri feels the burn of her stare on the fresh scratches on his neck.

“I’m going to take a look at your feet, and then you’ll be able to change. Claude will hopefully have been able to get some food by then.”

Mercie’s hands are as gentle as they had been last night as she unbandages him, reapplying salves and wrapping his feet back up. Her eyebrows have a small furrow to them when she rises to look over his other injuries. Small cuts and bumps, bruises old and new. The worst he knows is his eye, which is still healing. She hums softly as she works, explaining what she’s doing when she needs to put her hands on him, her fingers tilting his head this way and that by his chin to inspect the healing wound.

Mercedes has just put a small layer of ointment over the healing scars on his eye when the door swings open again. Claude carries a bundle of clothes under his elbow, his arms full of three pairs of boots. Mercedes frowns at him.

“That isn’t food, Claude,” she states.

“I’m aware. Dedue is coming with that. I’ve only got the two hands.”

She hums, but doesn’t protest as Claude brings Dimitri the clothes. While Dimitri steps behind a screen to change, he hears her rule out a pair of the boots immediately, noting that the soles aren’t thick enough to help promote healing.

He’s been given a pair of dark trousers that are a bit too short for his legs, and a bit too wide for his waist. The shirt’s the same, just slightly off from fitting correctly. Loose in the shoulders, billowy at his hips. He leaves the shirt laces undone as he tucks the ends into the breeches, trying to pad it as best he can before tugging the laces tight enough to fit. The pair of thick, woolen socks help hide the gap of the pants at his ankles, giving him a slight cushion to protect the bandages on his feet.

Claude’s gone by the time Dimitri reemerges, Mercedes setting the pair of boots she’s deemed unusable aside.

“Have I stolen these from any crew that need them?” he asks.

Mercedes laughs, not unkindly. “No, no, these are extras. Those ones with the laces look like a pair of Dedue’s, and these ones—,” she gestures to the second pair of tall, thigh high ones, “—look like a pair of Sylvain’s. I would suggest the ones with laces because of the bandages, but with the thick socks you’ve got, either would be fine.”

He has a feeling that since both pairs have been brought to him, neither Sylvain or this Dedue mind very much, but he still feels a tiny bit less guilt at taking Sylvain’s, slipping his feet and legs into the thigh high pair.

He’s just finishing adjusting the buckle at his thigh when the door opens again. The smell of seasoned meat floats in, his stomach immediately voicing its complaints. Dimitri can’t remember the last time he ate more than a bite of stale bread.

The man who brings him breakfast is Dedue, a member of Sylvain’s personal council, according to Mercedes—their navigator, according to Dedue himself. They talk briefly while Dimitri eats, the smell of the food soothing as he mostly listens to Mercedes’ explanation of Sylvain’s ship. She works on her needlework as she speaks, trailing off sometimes, lost in whatever thought has crossed her mind, but from what Dimitri gathers, Sylvain is a well liked captain, his crew loving him dearly.

It’s laughable, honestly, how that shocks Dimitri. Sylvain had never seemed too thrilled at the thought of captaining in their youth, but he supposes coming into your own ship had to have given him a new outlook. Dimitri shouldn’t be surprised to hear that he’s well-liked, either. He should’ve known better. When they were children, he was certain they were all in love with Sylvain.

Dedue gives him a tour of the ship once he’s finished eating. The day is bright, the sky clear of the clouds that had gathered the day before to help fuel the storm. The crew of _Cethleann’s Salvation_ all greet him warmly, if hesitantly. They run into the man who had brought Dimitri to Sylvain’s rooms, who Dimitri learns is named Ashe, who gives them both some snacks from the galley. This time, Dimitri notes, he’s able to meet his eye.

Dedue ends the tour back at Sylvain’s quarters, where he knocks once before there’s a muffled _come in_ , and they walk through the door to find Sylvain lacing up his boots, sitting on the bed. He looks better, in the midday light, smile soft when his eyes roam over Dimitri.

“Well, good morning to you two,” he says. “Was wondering if you got the urge to wander already, Your Majesty.”

“I was informed walking around barefoot was frowned upon,” Dimitri tells him, earning a light laugh.

“On a ship? Always. I’m glad those boots fit you—same with the clothes. You look good.”

Dimitri swallows down his scoff at that as Sylvain rises to his feet, readjusting the laces on his shirt as he grabs his coat from the peg.

“Dedue, I need to speak with Raph, I’m changing our course.”

“Are you?”

“Ah, well, _technically_ I’m just removing a stop,” says Sylvain, still all easy smiles as he slips his arms through his sleeves. “Instead of where we were headed, I figured our best option is to go visit Manuela.”

“Manuela.” Dedue tilts his head, considering. “They’re just a little over a week away. You’re certain you don’t want to stop before then?”

“I don’t see the need to,” Sylvain answers. “Everyone should be happy with what we got off that ship, and we didn’t suffer any lasting damage from the storm. Our supplies will get us there.” He smooths his hand down the side of his coat, giving Dimitri a bright smile, paired with a wink. “Plus, Manuela’s going to be able to help us out with you, Your Majesty. The crew should be alright with that.”

“I’ll go start letting them know,” Dedue says. “It was nice to meet you properly, Your Majesty.”

Dimitri’s lips part to complain about the title from him, but Dedue’s already gone, back through the door. He turns to Sylvain, trying his best not to look too displeased.

Sylvain notices his look anyway, quirking a quick brow. “You look like you’re pouting.”

The shock of the ease at which he states it makes him jolt. He stammers a bit, feeling heat rush to his face, ready to deny that a king _pouts_ , but instead he forces a sigh out. “I’m already a burden enough on you and your crew.”

Sylvain lifts an eyebrow, looking oddly delighted. “A ‘ _burden_?’” he repeats. “Dimitri, my dear, you are a _king_.”

“And you are pirates,” states Dimitri, feeling like he’s restarting the same argument they had over Sylvain’s bed. “You don’t follow the laws of kings.”

“You are still a king to your people, whether you consider us criminals or not,” Sylvain says. “Besides, the longer you’re with us, the more the crew will love you.”

“Is that so.”

“It is,” Sylvain insists. “Unless you wish to stay here, I’m headed to find my helmsman and Claude. Have you met him yet?”

Whatever look that crosses Dimitri’s face makes Sylvain snort.

“That’s a yes. He wasn’t too bad, was he?”

“Eccentric, is more the word I would use,” says Dimitri. “He does seem nice, though. All of the members of your crew I’ve met have.”

Sylvain beams. “Good, I’m glad. We’re a little family aboard here, so it’s nice to hear we seem welcoming.”

He spends the rest of the afternoon with Sylvain, darting between crew members. The faces of the crew members he meets start to blend together, the names he’s learning starting to grow indistinguishable with the amount swirling through his head.

“Don’t overexert yourself,” Sylvain tells him as they make their way to his office. “You’re our guest. You don’t need to worry while you’re healing.”

Dimitri has always been bad at _not_ worrying.

He doesn’t voice that thought, while he looks around Sylvain’s office. Books and papers are scattered about, looking like they had been left last minute and been knocked around in the storm. Sylvain nods to a seat while he tidies things up, collecting a few pieces of paper while he goes.

The crew of _Cethleann’s Salvation_ had grabbed more than just Dimitri from the ship. He had seen it himself while they lugged him across a gangway, but Sylvain goes over the actual report from his quartermaster, giving Dimitri insight on things as he reads. They had been able to get plenty of supplies and what Sylvain deems _goodies_ , most of the best options divided up amongst the crew already, but a lot left in their stores.

The time they spend in his office is companionable, while Dimitri tries to piece together the boy he thought dead to this jovial, well-loved pirate. Sylvain doesn’t mind that Dimitri keeps his eye mostly closed, giving small responses to things. It’s _nice_ , as nice as sharing the bed had been, the nicest time Dimitri’s had in recent memory.

The last time he had felt this immediately relaxed in another’s presence had been whenever he was able to spend time with just Felix, or Ingrid.

They eat dinner in Sylvian’s office, his attention solely on books he had gathered off the ship. The only time he asks Dimitri for anything is when he asks if Dimitri’s able to read the language they’re written in, which he can’t.

The sun is starting to set by the time they leave his office. There’s noise—there always seems to be, as full as the ship is—but this time, it’s paired with an undercurrent of excitement.

The crew of _Cethleann's Salvation_ treat him with less unease than they had even that morning, seeming to be adjusting to his presence, most chattering amongst themselves. Sylvain doesn’t stray far from his side as they walk out onto the main deck. He jolts when someone rushes by them, grasping what looks like a bodhrán in hand, followed by another grasping a fiddle. Sylvain makes a delighted sound, leading Dimitri further out to see where the crew has gathered around the main mast where a little over a day ago, he had been tied.

“What’s that look for?” Sylvain asks, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “You act like you’ve never seen a fiddle before.”

“I _have_ ,” Dimitri says. “I just. . .did not expect it.”

Sylvain tilts his head, still smiling, his hand squeezing at Dimitri’s shoulder. “What? You expect everything to be all doom and gloom on a pirate ship?” He forces his expression to a dour scowl. “You think I’m a cruel pirate captain, who shouts and beats his crew?”

“Syl _vain_ ,” he says. “I just—did not think there would be music tonight.”

Sylvain laughs, cheerfully, the stern look on his face completely gone in a blink of an eye. “We’re _celebrating,_ Dimitri.”

“Celebrating,” he echoes.

“Yes!” Sylvain releases him to gesture, and Dimitri’s surprised by how quickly he misses his touch. “We got a good haul, the seas are calm, and we saved a _king_! A celebration is necessary.”

Dimitri gives him a soft, little scoff, but when he looks out at the main deck, where music is floating loudly above the waters around them, he can’t help the small smile he feels, the tension in his shoulders relax bit by bit. People are already dancing, someone singing a bawdy shanty to go along with the music playing.

Sylvain nudges him with his shoulder, lifting his hat off his head and proffering his hand. “Shall we?”

“Shall we?” Dimitri questions.

Sylvain tilts his head in the direction of the dancers. “Shall we dance, Your Highness?”

The title that falls off Sylvain’s tongue seems to not even register in his head. _Your Highness_. It’s been years since Dimitri was referred to as such, but Sylvain speaks it in the same fond tone he says _Dimitri_. The same way he had said it in his youth.

“I don’t think I know any of those dances,” he manages, after a moment.

Sylvain rolls his eyes, fondly. “C’mon, I’ll teach you. They’re real easy and better than the stuffy dances they teach you for courtly dancing.”

“You would know,” Dimitri says, half an accusation.

“I would. That’s why you should trust me.”

Dimitri looks down to Sylvain’s proffered hand, the bandages Mercedes had placed still wrapped tightly around his wounds. He waits only a moment more before taking it, unable to stop his smile at Sylvain’s bright grin, unable to stop his laugh when Sylvain takes his hat and plops it over Dimitri’s head.

“Is this necessary?” he asks, his free hand still slightly lifted to cover his mouth.

Sylvain’s staring at him with an unreadable expression, lips parted slightly. It takes him a moment to come back to himself, grinning as he lifts his eyes to Dimitri’s gaze.

“Of course. You look dashing. C’mon.”

His protest of a startled _dashing?_ is lost as Sylvain tugs him towards the dancers, laughing all the way.


	3. the opera house

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They dock as the sun starts to paint the sea red, the low thrum of the waves crashing against the shore a guiding force as they’re tethered to the port with mooring ropes. The port itself is quieter than it would have been had they landed midday, which is a blessing in of itself. Instead of the usual rowdiness of the docks, the few workers they deal with look ready for their shifts to be over, for their time to be spent elsewhere than being battered by sea spray and salted winds. 
> 
> Even without the dark brick calling attention to the _Opera House_ , Sylvain would know the way to the tavern with his eyes covered and walking backwards. He knows the stone bricks like the back of his hand, even years after leaving the port to call _Cethleann’s Salvation_ home. He had spent years walking these pathways from the docks to Manuela’s, piecing together enough coin and information to get an old ship.

Stillness has always unsettled Sylvain.

Being stagnant too long always made him feel itchy, anxious to go do something, to run through the castle corridors with three younger children chasing him, their laughter echoing against the stone walls. If he was too still for too long, he always felt trapped, cornered, nowhere to escape.

Children in Faerghus grew up with the ideals that the country had been founded on centuries before: fighting and sailing. They picked up weapons before they knew how to read, learned knots and sails before they were hip tall.

As the Gautier heir, Sylvain had been primed from birth to be prepared to one day lead a large branch of Faerghus’ Navy. His father had made certain he had the best teachers, seasoned sailors through and through, from lessons at a desk to hands-on learning on a moored boat.

It was on one of his first _official_ sailing patrols, bright-eyed and wishful for a life of something _more_ , where one of the men of his father’s crew had told him _true_ paradise was on the sea.

Not _Faerghan_ seas, of course, but further south, where the choppy, grey waves of the north melted into the pristine, warm waves of the Adrestian Ocean. The colour of the sea that far south was an intricate turquoise, a colour and warmth that would call even the heartiest of northern men to her depths.

Sylvain had been to Adrestia plenty of times. Their path always seemed to bring them south for winters more often than not.

Yet, for some reason, it was always the waters of Faerghus that called him home.

The seas of the north weren’t always blue-slate storm waves, threatening to sink anything that just so dared to be in its grasps. The waves were often slow, slumbering as they knocked against the sides of _Cethleann’s Salvation_ without even a hint of malice.

Besides, out of all the waters now, the safest place for them would be the seas of the north. While the Adrestian Ocean was still a warm beauty to behold, there was no sense of calm in those waves. In the south, the waters crawled with the Empire’s fleet of naval ships, the Emperor expanding her borders with carefully curated guises of trade routes and protecting merchants.

That old sailor had been right. Even with war simmering on its edges, Sylvain’s always favoured the water to land. There’s only one place on land he’s ever felt he’s been able to truly relax, anyway. Nestled along the shore where the azure waters of Faerghus met the cerulean blue of Adrestia, in a large port city that turned its eye away from the pirates that frequented their waters, sat the _Opera House_.

Sylvain remembers very little of his first few days after being plucked out of a post-storm sea. The stern-faced woman that had grabbed him by his scruff had made it clear from the beginning that once she found a place to get rid of him, she would, and even after Sylvain had made it clear he knew how to work on a ship with her crew, Shamir had still scoffed when Sylvain asked to go with her, dropping him off at Manuela’s tavern.

He hasn’t seen or heard any tales about the _Sage Mistral_ since, and supposes Shamir’s keeping her crew on the other side of the world, content to run from the waters that reminded her of her past.

Sylvain’s crew had been well-receptive to postponing their original destination when Dimitri came aboard. He knows they’re all itching to get to stretch their legs, feel solid ground beneath their feet, but there’s been no sour moods amongst them, just the building anticipation that’s carried them over the past few days. They’re all ready to go explore port, spend their coin on drinks and trinkets, and while Sylvain can’t say he wants the same, he _is_ ready to step foot back in the _Opera House_.

A warm breeze carries the ever-present scent of salt on the air, filling their sails with wind as they make their way to port. The main deck is busy with his crew running to and fro to do their tasks, or just basking in the sunny day. The weather’s been kind enough that it’s almost unbearably hot, and Sylvain’s stripped down to his undershirt as he makes rounds to check that everything is running smoothly.

It’s here, under the piercing gaze of the sun, that Sylvain finds Dimitri.

He spots him as soon as he steps out of Mercedes’ room, a list for what she’ll need to get at port tucked into his pocket, standing next to Dedue on the starboard side of the ship. It amazes him how he’s been able to watch the tension wielding Dimitri’s shoulders taut to melt bit by bit each passing day. It’s a _blessing_ that he’s able to be so calm and collected with a crew as boisterous as _Cethleann’s Salvation_ holds, all total strangers save for one.

He’s yet to tell Sylvain the full details of what transpired on the last ship he was on, full of strange faces, a strange language, but he’s gotten bits and fragments, whispered conversations late at night when they’re laying next to each other in Sylvain’s bed. The argument that one should find somewhere else to sleep had only lasted that first night, the relief of a slightly older, but still familiar face bringing both a piece of comfort. Dimitri’s voice is always a roughened quiet, his voice having gone so long without being used on that other ship, and they speak to one another in soft voices, as if they were children once again awake late into the night and trying not to wake Felix.

Dimitri looks comfortable, chatting quietly with Dedue, both looking relaxed in the other’s presence. Dimitri’s dressed in one of Sylvain’s old shirts, the fit not _quite_ right with the shoulders too tight and the waist too loose, but he looks good regardless. The only noticeable upset to the entire thing is the dark metal around Dimitri’s throat.

Mittlefrank isn’t known for housing the greatest mages and scholars in Adrestia, but the anger that flares up in his stomach at the sight of the collar is settled by the thought of how he had learned quickly that Manuela knew what she was doing when it came to magic. He wants nothing more than to see that metal fall from the skin of Dimitri’s throat, to take the last lingering hold they held on Dimitri and see it destroyed.

If not Manuela, he assures himself as he approaches, then Dorothea. And if not Dorothea, Manuela is bound to know someone powerful enough to help.

With those thoughts swirling in his head, he walks over to the two of them, twirling the spyglass in his hand, catching Dedue’s attention when he fumbles it over his knuckles and hastily has to catch it by pulling it close to his chest. A lone eyebrow lifts, Dedue’s jeweled eyes dancing with unspoken amusement as he looks Sylvain over.

Sylvain can feel the slight heat in his cheeks but he nods in greeting, his smile widening and going from embarrassed to something softer as Dedue nods back. Dimitri glances over at the movement, his brows furrowing, a question in his expression that Sylvain doesn’t give him the chance to voice. He drops his hands from where they’re clutching the spyglass to his chest, proffering the free one with a waggle of his fingers.

“May I steal you for a moment?”

Dedue shades his eyes, peeking out towards the horizon. It’s clear as soon as his eyes find the reason for the interruption, his expression softening. “I believe I need to find Mercedes, anyway,” he says. “We shall see one another later, Your Majesty.”

The title takes Dimitri out of his puzzlement. He looks to Dedue with a stern frown. “I insist you call me Dimitri, Dedue.”

Dedue glances to Sylvain before huffing a small breath, amused. “Dimitri, then.” He nods at Sylvain once more. “Captain.”

The breeze rustles Dimitri's hair as he takes Sylvain’s hand once Dedue has stepped away. Sylvain can’t stop his grin; the wink that follows is instinctual.

With Dimitri’s fingers laced with his, he practically drags Dimitri towards the bow. They’ll be given the best view from the front of the boat, he knows, and he brings Dimitri along, feeling almost _giddy_ at the prospect of this. It’s no secret, but he feels like they’re back in their youth, stealing away and swapping whispered tales as they pilfered sweets and dried meats from the castle kitchen.

He can already see their destination if he shades his eyes against the sparkling of the water under the sun. It’s just a green speck in the distance, a tiny emerald amongst the deep lapis of the sea.

Sylvain stops them inches away from the boat’s rail, rolling the spyglass over his knuckles and _not_ fumbling it this time. Dimitri watches the gesture with mild confusion on his face until Sylvain squeezes his hand and proffers the glass at the same time.

Dimitri’s eye goes to him. Sylvain tilts his head towards the horizon. When he looks back out towards the sea, the speck grows ever closer. They’ll reach it by sundown, and as soon as the familiar skyline of the large trees that shade the city’s port is visible, the call of _land ahoy!_ will drop down from the crow’s nest.

Sylvain only has a few precious moments before then to show Dimitri.

“Go on,” he says.

Dimitri glances down once before taking the spyglass from him. Sylvain loosens the fingers laced with his, but Dimitri makes no move to let go, just raises the glass up to his eye.

They’re definitely too far out to see _much_ , but Sylvain knows that he’ll be able to see the white against the stark green of the forest beyond the city. It’s a city of pure beauty, one that makes _certain_ despite its normally unruly visitors that the stone walkways stay clean. White stone against white brick, the only thing still proving the loyalty of its homeland the frequent designs of red and gold around the port itself.

The _Opera House_ held itself to different standards of beauty than the rest of Mittlefrank. The tavern was always visible from a distance, standing out against the whites and ivory, a smaller building of dark stone. A place Sylvain had called home for nearly two years.

Sylvain watches Dimitri’s expression carefully. There’s nothing truly there—his face remains impassive even when he lowers the glass from his eye. It’s only when he looks back to Sylvain that he catches the shift, the slight flicker of doubt, his fingers tensing in Sylvain’s grip before he seems to remember himself, and hastily drops Sylvain’s hands.

Sylvain lets him go; he takes a step back to let Dimitri gather himself. His newly freed hand lifts, and Sylvain knows exactly where it’s headed. Before his fingers can brush the metal at his throat, Dimitri’s hand balls into a fist in the loose fabric at his chest.

Dimitri clears his throat. “You have. . .friends here?”

He tilts his head with a grin, one that’s half-hearted at best. He knows what Dimitri’s truly asking. “Hard to believe, I know.”

He pairs the statement with another wink, which startles Dimitri. Pink spots high on his cheekbones, colour bleeding down his face.

“That’s not—”

“I know,” Sylvain tells him, nudging him gently with an elbow. He lifts his hand to take the glass back, just as the familiar call plummets down overhead.

Land being spotted is always exciting. Sylvain’s smile feels more genuine when the crew all stop what they’re doing to peer out over the water. He spots Caspar climbing rope to get a better view, Leonie grabbing on so he doesn’t fall as she shades her eye. The call from the crow’s nest is met with the excited, muffled roar of chatter, plans being formed on where everyone will go when they’re able to get to shore.

Dimitri’s smiling, too, a small smile that he mostly hides behind his fist as he looks around at the crew. “Is it always like this?”

“Always,” Sylvain says. “The sea may call to them, but it’s nice on occasion to have steady ground beneath your feet.”

Dimitri hums a little _hmph_ in agreement. Before Sylvain can gesture to look back at the island, he’s being hailed, Claude’s voice ringing out above the din of the crew’s chatter.

“Need you for a moment, Captain!”

“Ah, yes,” Sylvain sighs. “The best part: deciding who gets shore leave first.”

Dimitri tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

Sylvain gestures for him to follow as they weave their way to Claude, who’s waiting near the doors to the main rooms on the upper deck. “We can’t actually leave the ship unattended in port. Even if they like pirates there, there’s a chance the Empire might come along and see us. If that happens, I can’t risk the ship being sunk because we’re all too busy getting drunk at Manuela’s. Most times, we have the crew draw straws, but Claude’s devised a _strategy_ to make everyone happy.” Sylvain glances back at Dimitri as soon as they reach Claude, pitching his voice to a fake whisper. “Or so he claims.”

“I’ve told you once, Gautier, you may be witty, but schemes are my speciality.”

“It shouldn’t be a _scheme_ , Claude—,” he starts, but Claude waves a hand nonchalantly.

“Details, details. C’mon, you two, I’m sure His Royalness will like to hear this, too.”

“Will I?” Dimitri asks.

Claude huffs, trying for a pout but looking far too amused for it to land properly. “Every day you grow more sassy, and every day I’m not sure if I like it or not.”

Sylvain leans back again, lifting a hand to block his mouth from Claude’s view. “He likes it.”

Dimitri snorts with none of the grace of a king. It’s a simple thing, one that Sylvain’s seen and heard from countless others, a noise that shouldn’t make his chest fill, close to bursting.

Yet, for some reason, it does.

“Hey, come on, it’s _my_ job to bully _you_ , just because you’ve got a King on your side doesn’t mean the tables have turned completely,” Claude says.

“I’m your captain, Claude.” Sylvain lifts his hat from his head to push a hand through his hair. “You can’t bully me.”

Claude’s eyes narrow. “Sure,” he drawls. “Anyway, I left my papers on your desk. . .”

**.**

They dock at Mittlefrank as the sun starts to paint the sea red, the low thrum of the waves crashing against the shore a guiding force as they’re tethered to the port with mooring ropes. The port itself is quieter than it would have been had they landed midday, which is a blessing in of itself. Instead of the usual rowdiness of the docks, the few workers they deal with look ready for their shifts to be over, for their time to be spent elsewhere than being battered by sea spray and salted winds.

With the setting sun, the white walkways and buildings of the port look almost as gold as the accent marks lining the streets.

Even without the dark brick calling attention to the _Opera House_ , Sylvain would know the way to the tavern with his eyes covered and walking backwards. He knows the stone bricks like the back of his hand, even years after leaving the port to call _Cethleann’s Salvation_ home. He had spent years walking these pathways from the docks to Manuela’s, piecing together enough coin and information to get an old ship.

After all, it was here on these white stone streets that he met Mercedes.

She breaks off with Dedue as soon as they step off the gangway, her eyes fixed on the cathedral, towering over the city and ocean both across the port. She presses hasty kisses to his and Dimitri’s cheek, promising they’d be at the tavern in a bit, before she rushes off, Dedue nodding to them as he follows her dutifully.

Sylvian’s not used to being the first off the ship. He often stays to let the others enjoy their shore leave first, but no one on the crew had seemed too upset with his choice to bring Dimitri to Manuela first. To help ease any tensions that _may_ erupt over most of Sylvain’s inner circle leaving for the shore, Claude had opted to stay behind on the first night, and he stands at the dock as they venture from the docks to the streets.

The setting sun leaves the pathways lighted well enough, but as they walk towards the _Opera House_ , the streets light up with oil lanterns, their flames flickering. Sylvain leads a small patch of his crew towards the tavern, Dimitri at his side, his gaze downcast, expression creased with a frown.

With the setting sun behind him, he looks radiant, his golden hair tinged orange. Even with the discomfort of his situation furrowing his brow, he’s handsome, and Sylvain’s not sure how anyone is able to look at the King of Faerghus and not fall a little bit in love with him.

Maybe Sylvain should ask Dedue. He’s certain every member of the crew is the tiniest bit in love with him, too.

The chattering of Caspar and Ashe behind them are drowned out by Sylvain’s attention staying solely on Dimitri. He considers for a moment before he leans closer, gathering Dimitri’s attention with the movement.

“I know I’ve said this already, but we often come to Manuela’s,” he says, nodding behind them slightly. “The rest of the crew’s always happy to find warm beds here.”

Dimitri’s eye flicks down before back up, his chin dipping in a slightest nod. “You used to work here, yes?”

He hadn’t explained much beyond that, just a small statement that oversimplified his years in Mittlefrank. _I worked at the tavern for a bit_. He had wanted to laugh then, wants to laugh now thinking it over, self-deprecation already filling his lungs with a weary sigh.

“I did,” he says, swallowing his sigh down before it can pass through his lips. “We get jobs here sometimes, too.”

Dimitri blinks. “Jobs?”

“Jobs,” Sylvain says, instead of anything else that could be classified as _stupid_. He has to bite back the thought of saying _favours_. “Sometimes we take them on if Manuela’s got information.”

That statement just seems to further confuse Dimitri as a hand lifts to rest at his chin. “Pirates taking on _jobs_ from a _tavernkeep_?”

“Aye,” Sylvain says, grinning when Dimitri looks at him. “Sometimes we need extra coin for supplies. Sometimes a ship is needed for a favour.”

He tries to say it lightly, jokingly, but Dimitri looks unamused.

“Anyway, as I’ve said, Manuela’s good. So are her little songbirds, too. They’re sharp. Someone is bound to be able to get _that_ off of you.”

Dimitri nods, his face impassive, unreadable in the lowlight. Anxiety knots its way into Sylvain’s stomach, but he pushes it down, the tavern far too close to try to drag any of his thoughts out.

There’s a familiar woman lighting the lanterns lining the stone steps leading up to the _Opera House_ ’s entrance. At their approach, she flicks her dark hair over her shoulder, eyes straying from her task to look at them.

Dorothea’s eyes are sharp as she flicks them over them, an amused smile curling her lips as Caspar spots her, shouting a greeting and shouldering past Sylvain to rush up the stairs. Her laughter is laced with music as she accepts his hug before he barrels beyond her through the double doors of the tavern, and she’s still smiling when her gaze lands on Sylvain.

“Well, look what the tide dragged in,” she drawls.

“Always a pleasure to see you, ‘Thea,” Sylvain says, tipping his hat and holding his hand out. She rolls her eyes, but places a hand in his, accepting the kiss he places on the back of her hand. “May I introduce you to an old friend of mine?”

Sharp, green eyes land on Dimitri, the smile on her lips settling into a false, feline smirk. “I suppo— _oh_.”

He can piece just when Dorothea’s eyes land on the metal around Dimitri’s neck, her painted lips parting, concern filling her expression.

“Oh, no.”

“It’s why we’ve come with no warning,” Sylvain says, smiling without an ounce of mirth. “Manuela’s sober, I hope?”

“For now,” ‘Thea says. “Come in, hurry.”

She ushers both of them inside, her skirts swishing about her legs as she moves through the tavern. It looks the same as it always does, Manuela’s small batch of workers keeping it pristinely clean despite the folk that normally frequent it. The darkening sky leaves little light to fall through the high windows. Oil lamps and candles light the main room with a warm glow, flickering over the dark tables and booths lining the far wall.

Sylvain’s eyes first land on Bernadetta, who’s wiping a table, then to Manuela, standing behind the bar. There’s no one else inside yet, too early for the locals to come to wet their whistles.

The crew that had come with them break off immediately, Caspar’s energetic voice bellowing out as he spots Bernadetta from afar, who makes a sharp sounding _meep_ and tries to duck down behind the bar.

Caspar catches her before she can, swinging her up into his arms, while Dorothea, her grip tight on Sylvain’s wrist, drags him and Dimitri towards where Manuela stands, nursing a wine glass, expression showcasing her consternation at their unannounced arrival.

Her eyes dart from where Ashe is trying to wrangle Caspar, voice lost over Bernadetta’s panicked voice asking to be set down. She lifts an eyebrow when her eyes go to Sylvain, but when they flick to his side she stops short, straightening up as she sets her wine down.

“Need a favour,” Sylvain calls, in lieu of greeting. “You haven’t gotten rusty with your magic, have you?”

“What in the _world_ have you gotten yourself into?” she asks.

“Can I explain that later, maybe?”

Her eyes dart between them before she sighs. “Bernedetta, watch the bar!”

“ _What_? No, you can’t leave me with them!”

“ _Ashe_ ,” Sylvain calls, as Dorothea and Manuela guide him and Dimitri towards the hall that leads to Manuela’s main offices. “Keep Caspar in check, please, and be nice to Bernie!”

“ _I’m nice_!” calls Caspar, indignant, but Manuela shoves at Sylvain’s shoulders and they’re off down the hall.

Manuela’s office is small, compared to the other rooms she uses outside of the rooms for guests. Her bed sits in the far corner, her desk covered in papers and empty bottles that they ignore in favour of the sturdy table that she makes Dimitri sit on.

Sylvain hovers, unsure what to do while she looks over the metal and Dorothea flips through different books. While Manuela favoured healing magic, like Mercedes, Dorothea had spent most of her youth training her voice and Reason magic.

“Tell me what happened,” Manuela instructs, the command of an irritated professor trying to find who stole their chalk. “Who did this?”

“I’m unsure,” Dimitri tells her. “They did not speak any language I knew.”

“I’ve never seen these runes before,” Dorothea says, her voice catching over the sound of her frantic paper turning. “I don’t think they’re Reason.”

“They’re not,” says Sylvain. “Mercie and I couldn’t figure it out.”

“Who put this on you?” Manuela asks, her hands glowing as she moves them over the collar. “ _How_ did they put it on you?”

“That I’m afraid I don’t know, either,” Dimitri says. He sounds resigned, tired, and Sylvain swallows the thickness in his throat and crosses his arms. “I woke up in chains on a ship after being attacked at home. Ashe was able to get the shackles off my wrists and ankles, but this. . .”

Manuela’s eyes flick over to Sylvain, the spell lighting her hands fading. Dorothea tries next, the dark red pulsing from her palms, but her spell fades, too. Both wear the same expressions, pinched brows and tight-lipped frowns.

They can’t do it.

“Dorothea.” Manuela’s voice is soft, but stern. “Go help Bernadetta.”

Dorothea nods. She lays a gentle hand on Dimitri’s shoulder, murmuring a quiet _I’m sorry_ , that Dimitri doesn’t respond to. She squeezes Sylvain’s arm as she passes, leaving the room with a quiet click of the door behind her.

Manuela straightens, mirroring Sylvain’s pose by crossing her arms over her chest. “Can you tell me _anything_ about where you woke up?”

“Sylvain would be able to tell you more,” Dimitri states, solemnly. “Until his crew arrived, I had only been taken down a hallway, all under the decks.”

Manuela looks to him and Sylvain lets his hands drop to his sides, resisting the urge to curl his fingers into fists. He’s not used to feeling as helpless as he does, and he doesn’t care for it.

“I took some papers from their ship, but even Claude couldn’t recognize the language. They were able to cause a tempest, though, after we pushed off from their ship. Hell of a storm.”

“This late in the season?” Manuela _hmm_ s softly. “I can look into things, but I’m afraid as of right now, I have nothing for you.”

Dimitri stands up sharply while Sylvain’s mouth dries. As courteous as any King could hope to be, he bows shallowly to Manuela. “Thank you, anyway.”

Sylvain’s heart thunders in his chest as Manuela nods, apologizing again softly. Dimitri doesn’t look at him as Manuela moves to open the door, letting them step back out into the hallway.

Dimitri doesn’t even look disappointed when Manuela leads them back out to the main room, which makes Sylvain’s heart feel like it’s splintering to pieces. His hand hovers at the small of Dimitri’s back as they walk back, his eyes skimming over the occupants of the tavern.

There’s more than just the small ragtag of _Cethleann’s Salvation_ crew that had come with. A few locals are sitting in a corner, chatting with Dorothea, another man sits at the end of the bar, his eyes landing on them briefly before flicking back to his drink.

Even more of his crew has arrived. Mercedes and Dedue are sitting at a large table with Caspar, Ashe, and a few of the others, Mercie’s trip to the church shorter than usual. Sylvain blames it on the hour, but he’s grateful for their arrival. As soon as Mercedes’ eyes land on them, she lifts her hand, waving them both to the table.

There’s already a pitcher of ale on the table, Mercedes nursing a glass of wine. Sylvain hums, putting on airs, and tells Dimitri he’s going to get Manuela to make him something else.

Dimitri nods, still quiet, and moves to the table without even giving him a second glance. Sylvain takes a moment, watching the shift of his back as Dimitri moves to the chair that’s been dragged over for him. He exhales, turning to the bar.

Manuela looks as frustrated as Sylvain feels, but it’s not _enough_. He takes a steadying breath before leaning against the bar. Her eyes flick up to meet his and the sigh she gives him makes him barrel forward with his question.

“Alright, so you can’t, but you know someone who _can_ , right?” Sylvain asks, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. “You’ve never led me astray before, Manuela.”

She makes a small face as she thinks it over, before disgust overcomes her expression. “Hanneman.”

“Hanneman?”

“ _Ugh_ ,” she scoffs, looking deeply upset with the prospect of what she’s about to say. “Hanneman. He’s from Adrestia, too, but moved to a smaller island near the Church of Seiros’ borders. He’s got his own little research laboratory there.”

Sylvain shifts his weight, leaning forward on the top of the bar, arms loosely crossed. “He’s an old friend of yours?”

Maneula’s lips twist in a sneer. “Friend? I think not. _Acquaintance_ , now that would be better. He thinks I drink too much.”

Sylvain’s eyes drop to the wine glass Manuela has sitting under the counter’s edge before lifting his gaze, smiling. “That so?”

Her eyes narrow. She lifts the glass and holds eye contact as she takes a sip. As soon as the glass has been set back down with a gentle _clink_ , Manuela lifts an eyebrow. “I suppose you want directions to Hanneman.”

“If it was just for me, I’d say you’re justified in not telling me,” Sylvain says. His eyes dart over to where Dimitri’s sitting near Dedue and the others at a table, hiding what Sylvain knows is a smile behind his hand as Caspar gestures wildly, in the midst of some sort of tale. He’s grateful that even with this failure, Dimitri’s found some comfort with the crew. When he looks back to Manuela, she’s followed his gaze, her expression softening. He tilts his head, giving her a smile that has her eyes rolling.

“Fine,” she sighs. “Go get me some paper and a quill from my office—I’ll have to write him a note saying why I’ve sent a pirate ship to his doorstep.”

Sylvain stretches over the bar to kiss her cheek, ignoring her noise of complaint as he rocks back onto his heels, beaming. “Thanks!”

“Mhm,” she drawls, waving her hand. “Go on. I don’t have _all_ night, Gautier.”

He refrains from trying to give her any sass in response, just gives her a quick wave as he darts down the bar, slipping around the corner to head down to her office. As soon as he returns to her side, it only takes her a few moments to write the note out, and Sylvain looks away as she does, catching Dimitri’s eye.

Sylvain can’t help his smile. As soon as Manuela and Dorothea had told him they weren’t able to get the collar off, he had felt nothing but guilt swelling in his chest.

But _now_ —

Dimitri’s brow furrows as he meets Sylvain’s gaze, head tilting. He’s startled away by Caspar slamming his stein down, standing up to shout something that gets laughter from the others and a stern reprimand from Dorothea across the room.

Sylvain exhales, shoulders relaxing as Manuela hands him the note.

“You know,” she drawls, “the longer your crew keeps flaunting the Faerghan King around, the more you paint yourselves as a target.”

“Adrestia’s always wanted us,” Sylvain says, winking. “Edelgard caught wind of my dashing good looks and won’t rest ‘till she catches me.”

“ _You_ are just as insufferable as when Shamir dropped you off on my doorstep,” Manuela states, no heat behind her words. “The beard just makes you look older.”

“It makes me look rugged and you know it.”

Manuela rolls her eyes, a retort at the ready, but they’re both interrupted by ‘Thea shouting.

“ _Sylvain!_ If he breaks another glass, it’s on you!”

Caspar’s _aw, come on!_ is drowned out by the sound of Sylvain’s sigh as he turns to his crew.

“Alright, settle down! ‘Thea, it’s been a bit since they’ve had shore leave, be nice.”

“Ex _cuse_ me?”

Sylvain lifts his hands, immediately regretting his word choice. “Alright, wait, hold on—” He cuts himself off, catching Dimitri’s eye once more, that blue a beacon in the murkiest waters, the tavern lights dim.

Dimitri’s smiling, but this time, he’s not hiding it. A bright, amused grin, teeth sharp and boyish.

Sylvain stares a moment too long—Dorothea’s at him before he can commit that grin to memory, a demand for an apology on her painted lips. He has to snap his eyes back to ‘Thea, trying his hardest to parse the thoughts swirling in his head.

“We have the coin,” he tells her, “we’ll pay.”

“I don’t want you to _pay_ ,” she insists, “just control him! He’s terrifying Bernie!”

“The wind scares Bernie,” says Sylvain, glancing over his shoulder to toss Bernadetta a _sorry!_ that he has no idea if she hears or not, because there’s the distinct sound of shattering glass.

Caspar’s gripping the handle of his stein, the rest of the glass scattered in pieces on the table. Dorothea turns her gaze to Sylvain, absolutely livid, and he lifts his hands.

“I’ll bring him back to the ship.”

“ _Good_.”

Mercedes plucks the glass handle from Caspar’s grip, smiling a tired looking smile as Sylvain walks up to them. Caspar looks like a kicked puppy, pout close to lethal, but Sylvain swings an arm around his shoulders.

“C’mon, back to the ship.”

“ _Captain_ ,” he whines, but follows without resistance as Sylvain leads him back.

It hasn’t been too long, but night has settled over Mittlefrank completely. The breeze from the ocean is tinged with a chill that ruffles his hair when he takes his cap off. Caspar stuffs his hands in his pockets, walking ahead of Sylvain’s casual stroll, kicking a stray rock down the path.

He’s not _pouting_ pouting anymore, but it’s still enough to get Sylvain to sigh.

“You can go out with Linhardt when he has leave tomorrow,” Sylvain tells him. “Just don’t go back to Manuela’s.”

“I was just telling a story!”

“Caspar, you are _known_ for breaking glasses, that’s not a good thing when we rely on Manuela and the tavern. Plus, it gives Dorothea and Bernie more work.”

“I would’ve cleaned it up!”

Sylvain can’t argue against that—Caspar regularly cleans up any of his spills in the tavern, knowing better than to ask one of Manuela’s workers to do it for him.

It’s been a hectic hour, one chalked full of too many emotions for Sylvain to have ever wanted. He’s tired, and cranky, unsure where his anger is actually being directed at. He thinks it’s just himself, at this point, for promising Dimitri he would be able to help and falling short.

The more he thinks about it, the more it bubbles. He tries to calm himself with the thought of Dimitri’s smile as he sat with the others, and while it lessens the feelings, it doesn’t stamp them out completely.

“What story were you telling?” he calls to Caspar, wanting a distraction.

Caspar smiles, _his_ mood immediately lifted. “Oh, just how you broke your spyglass this morning.”

Sylvain jolts. “What? I didn’t break my spyglass.”

“You dropped it,” Caspar states, as if fact.

“I did not!”

“Dedue said you did.”

Sylvain makes a noise, half scoff, half choke. “I did _not_ drop it!”

Caspar makes a face, his expression clearly saying he doesn’t believe Sylvain in the slightest, but before Sylvain can defend himself, he’s rushing up the docks.

_Cethleann’s Salvation_ sits in the waters, gently bobbing too and fro in the waves. The figurehead of the saint herself looks serene in the moonlight, a guiding force even in salt-bleached wood.

Caspar’s excited voice floats down as he stomps up the gangplank, making his way back onto the ship. He’s noisy enough that when Sylvain crests after him, Claude’s waiting for him, leaning against the rail, an amused smirk on his face.

“I think that’s a record.”

“Did Dedue tell you I broke my spyglass?” Sylvain asks.

Claude blinks, then laughs. “He said you were trying for suave and almost broke it. Guess the gossip-mongers caught wind, too.”

“You say that as if you’re not part of that vine,” says Sylvain.

Claude just grins. “If you’re back for the night, does that mean I can go get a drink?”

Sylvain waves his hand in a _do what you may_ gesture. “Just bring Manuela some extra gold for the stein Caspar broke.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Sylvain tries his best not to dwell on his current emotional state as he goes through the motions of getting ready for the night. He busies himself with a bath, scrubs his skin pink and raw, trying not to let the thought of _Dimitri always deserved better than you_ to fester and turn into a mantra.

He settles in bed with a thin sleep shirt, his trousers old and falling apart at the knee. He's never been one to sleep in more than just his smalls, but sharing a bed with Dimitri had made him follow a more decorous path in sleep clothes.

He doesn't think sleep is going to come easy. The moon is shining through the windows, the steady sound of waves ever present as the boat rocks, a lullaby that doesn't fully soothe him.

His bed isn't large by any means—he and Dimitri have to snuggle close so neither almost rolls off the edge—but laying in it by himself feels wrong, after days upon days of sharing with someone.

It's cold.

While Sylvain's always favoured cold, he doesn't think he likes it.

He's unsure how long he lays there, staring at the wood grain above his bed, fingers idly tapping against his stomach. His anxious feelings ebb and flow in time with the ship's movements, and just when he thinks sleep is going to fully escape him, the door opens.

He sits up slightly, watching as Dimitri sneaks in. His eye goes to the bed and he blinks when he spots Sylvain.

"Ah—." He clears his throat lightly. "Apologies, I didn't mean to wake you."

Sylvain shakes his head, falling back to the bed with a _plop_. "I wasn't sleeping."

"I see."

They fall into a silence, one that's more companionable than not. Sylvain listens to Dimitri shuffling, peeling his boots and socks off, carefully picking up the blanket's edge to slip underneath it.

Sylvain, like always, breaks the silence.

"You didn't want to stay at the tavern?"

Dimitri makes a soft noise, mostly a hum. “Wasn’t nearly as fun without Caspar there.”

Sylvain snorts, rolling onto his side. Dimitri follows the movement, his gaze warm. There’s only the moonlight falling over them, painting Dimitri in sharp shadows and pale light, but Sylvain doesn’t think he’ll ever grow tired of how handsome he looks. His eyes follow the path of his jaw, down his neck, and stops short at the metal there.

He swallows the rough lump that forms in his throat. One of his arms is trapped under the pillow, but the other raises, his fingers brushing the metal softly. It’s cold in the center, growing warmer the closer Sylvain gets to the edge.

He pulls his hand away, drops it in the space between them.

“I’m sorry,” he manages, voice raw.

Dimitri makes a small face, a frown pinching at his brow. He lifts a hand, hesitating for a moment, before he rests it against Sylvain’s face, thumb brushing through the stubble on his cheekbone. “Why are you apologizing? You told me before that Manuela might not be able to.”

“But you—. You deserve better than this,” Sylvain says. His voice cracks when he continues with, “Better than _me_.”

Dimitri shakes his head, strands of spun gold catching on the pillow beneath his head. He presses closer to Sylvain, close enough to rest his forehead against his, closing his eye. He brings his other hand to Sylvain’s, curling his fingers around it to bring it to his chest. His heart beats steadily under Sylvain’s palm, his skin warm through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“Sylvain, seeing you when I was first brought to your ship felt like a blessing from the goddess herself.”

“A goddess you don’t believe in,” Sylvain says, watching the slight quirk of Dimitri’s lips in amusement.

“For so long I’ve been trying to chase after ghosts,” Dimitri murmurs. “You were brought back from the dead, to _me._ ” He blinks his eye open, the black of his pupil bleeding into the blue. “I’ll always be grateful for that.”

“ _Shit_.” Sylvain has to look away, his throat threatening to close, tears starting to burn. He doesn’t move away from Dimitri, just drops his gaze to where Dimitri’s holding his hand against the anchor of his calm heartbeat, the slow rise and fall of his chest. “ _Shit_ ,” he repeats, choked. “You can’t say that to me—”

“I can.” Dimitri’s hand is still on his face, but he moves it to lift Sylvain’s chin, forcing Sylvain to look him in the eye. “You’ve always been precious to me, Sylvain. Time and distance has done nothing to make those feelings wane.”

Sylvain’s breath leaves his lungs in a choppy exhale. When he blinks, hot tears slip from his eyes.

He’s not expecting Dimitri’s lips to chase them.

Dimitri’s lips are chapped from the sea, but soft and gentle as they press against his cheeks, brushing the tears away. He moves on from there, placing featherlight kisses to Sylvain’s forehead, down the bridge of his nose. He hesitates only a moment, the scent of wine on his breath when he exhales, but then his lips press against Sylvain’s.

It’s slow, and soft, and it takes Sylvain a moment to respond. He can feel the stutter of Dimitri’s heart when he does, the way his fingers grip Sylvain’s a little tighter.

He’s not sure how long their lips slide against one another, how long they spend sharing their breaths. Long enough for Dimitri to free his hand to tangle both in Sylvain’s hair. Long enough that Sylvain’s own press into his hips.

When they separate, the skin around Dimitri’s mouth is pink, he’s out of breath, and any thoughts of disappointing him have gone from Sylvain’s mind.

Dimitri’s tongue darts out, his hands loosening in Sylvain’s curls to wrap around him, tugging him close into a tight hug, fingers splaying across his back.

“It’s late. We should sleep.”

“Sleep, yeah.” Sylvain clears his throat, shifting forward to press his face against Dimitri’s neck, exhales slowly. “Goodnight.”

Dimitri hums, soft. “Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never let Edelgard keep her friends huh;;;;


End file.
